The Crystal Cave
by MerlinsDescent
Summary: This is the story of a lost boy as he discovers what it means to be called the Merlin. Follow young Harry as he discovers the Sight, his heritage, and learns the politics of Kings. This adventure is held in the years of the Founders. Immerse yourself in the deep rich history that is the past. AU *Strongly based on the Arthurian saga*


Chapter One:

I am an old man now, but then I was already past my prime even before Arthur was crowned king. The years since than seem dimmer and faded than my youth, as if my life were a growing tree which burst into flower and leaf, and now has nothing more to do than yellow to the grave.

This is true of all old men, that the recent past is misted, while distant scenes of memory are clear and brightly colored. Even the scenes of my far childhood come back to me now sharp and high-colored and edged with brightness, like the pattern of a fruit tree against a white wall, or banners in sunlight against a sky of storm.

The colors are brighter than they were, of that I am sure. The memories that come back to me here in the dark are seen with the new young eyes of childhood; they are so far gone from me, with their pain no longer present, that they unroll like pictures of something that happened, not to me, not to the bubble of bone that this memory used to inhabit, but to a young merlin light and free of the air and spring winds as the bird she named me for.

With the later memories it is different; they come back, some of them, hot and shadowed, things seen in the fire. For this is where I gather them. This is one of the few trivial tricks-I cannot call it power- left to me now that I am old and stripped at last down to man. I can see still…not clearly or with the call of trumpets as I once did, but in the child's way of dreams and pictures in the fire. I can still make the flames burn up or die; it is one the simplest of magic, the most easily learned, the last forgotten. What I cannot recall in dream I see in the flames, the red heart of the fire or the countless mirrors of the crystal cave.

The first memory of all is dark, and fire shot, it is not my own memory, but later you will understand how I know these things. You would call it not meme pry so much as a dream of the past, something in the blood, something recalled from him, it may be, while he still bore me in his body. I believe that such things can be. So it seems to me right that I should start with him who was before me, and who will be again when I am gone. This is what happened that night. I saw it, and it is a true tale.

It was dark, and the place was cold, but he had lit a small fire of wood, which smoked sullenly but gave a little warmth. It had been raining all day, and from the branches near the mouth of the cave water still dripped, and a steady trickle overflowed the lip of the well, soaking the ground below. Several times, restless, he had left the cave, and now he walked out below the cliff to the grove where his horse stood tethered.

With the coming of the dusk the rain had stopped, but a mist had risen, creeping knee-high through the trees so that they stood like ghosts, and the grazing horse floated like a swan. It was a grey and more than ever ghostly because it grazed so quietly; he had torn up a scarf and wound fragment of cloth round the bit so that no jingle should betray him. The bit was gilded, and the torn strips were of silk, for he was Godric Gryffindor son. If they had caught him, they would kill him. He was just eighteen.

He hears the hoof beats coming softly up the valley. He had moved, and his breathing quickened. His sword flickered with light as he lifted it. The grey horse paused in it grazing and lifted its head clear of the mist. Its nostrils flickered, but no sound came. The man smiled.

The hoof-beats came closer, and then, shoulder-deep in mist, a brown pony trotted out of the dusk. Its rider, small and slight, was wrapped in a dark cloak, muffled from the night air. The pony pulled to a halt, threw up its head, and gave a long pealing whiny. The rider, with exclamation of dismay, slipped from its back and grabbed for the bridle to muffle the sound against her cloak. She was a girl, very young, who looked round her anxiously until she saw the young man, sword in hand, at the edge of the trees.

"You sound like a troop of cavalry," he said.

"I was here before I knew it. Everything looks strange in the mist."

"No one saw you? You came safely?"

"Safely enough. It's been impossible the last two days. They were on the roads night and day."

"I guessed it." He smiled. "Well, now you are here. Give me the bridle." He led the pony in under the trees, and tied it up. Then he kissed her.

After a while she pushed him away. "I ought not to stay. I brought the things, so even if I can't come tomorrow—"She stopped. She had seen the saddle on his horse, the muffled bit, the packed saddlebag. Her hands moved sharply against her chest and his own covered and held her fast.

"Ah," she said, "I knew. I knew even in my sleep last night. You're going."

"I must. Tonight."

She was silent for a minute. Then all she said was: "How long?"

He did not pretend to misunderstand her. "We have an hour, two, no more."

She said flatly: "You will come back."

Than as he started to speak: "No. Not now, not any more. We have said it all, and now there is no more time. I only meant that you will be safe, and you will come back safely. I tell you, I know these things. I have the Sight. You will come back."

"You hardly need the Sight to tell me that. I must come back. And then perhaps you will listen to me-"

"No." She stopped him again, almost angrily. "It doesn't matter. What does it matter? We have only an hour, and we are wasting it. Let us go in."

He was already pulling out the jeweled pin that held her cloak together, as he put an arm round her and led her towards the cave.

"Yes, lets us go in.

-6 years later-

The day my Uncle Vernon came home, I was just six years old. I remember him well as I first saw him, a tall young heavy man, fiery like my grandfather, with the blue eyes and blondish hair. He came to Surrey near sunset of a September evening, with a small troop of men. Being only small, I was with the women in the long, old-fashioned room where they did the weaving. My mother was sitting at the loom; I remember the cloth; it was of scarlet, with a narrow pattern of gold at the edge. I sat near her on the floor, playing knuckle-bones, right hand against left. The sun slanted through the windows, making oblong pools of bright gold on the cracked mosaics of the floor; bees droned in the herbs outside, and even the click and rattle of the loom sounded sleepy. The woman were talking among themselves over their spindles, but softly, heads together, and Alice, my nurse, was frankly asleep on her stool in one of the pools of sunlight.

When the clatter, and then the shouts, came from the courtyard, the look stopped abruptly, and with it the soft chatter from the women. Alice came awake with a snort and a stare. My mother was sitting very straight, head lifted, listening. She had dropped her shuttle. I saw her eyes meet Alice's.

I was halfway to the window when Alice called to me sharply, and there was something in her voice that made me stop and go her without protest. She began to fuss with my clothing, pulling my tunic straight and smoothing my hair, so that I understood the visitor to be someone of importance. I felt excitement, and also surprise that apparently I was to be presented to him; I was used to being kept out of the way in those days. I stood patiently while Alice dragged the comb through my hair, and over my head she and my mother exchanged some quick, breathless talk which, hardly heeding, I did not understand. I was not listening to the tramp of horses in the yard and the shouting of men, words here and there coming clearly in a language Welsh nor Latin, but Celtic with some accent like the one of Less Britain.

I heard my grandfather's great laugh, and another voice replying. Then he must have swept the newcomer indoors with him, for the voices receded, leaving only the jingle and stamp of the horse being led to the stables. I broke from Alice and ran to my mother.

"Who is it?" I asked

"Vernon, He is my sister's husband as well as heir to the throne." She did not look at me as she spoke, but pointed to the fallen shuttle. I picked it up and handed it to her. Slowly, and rather mechanically, she set the loom moving again.

"Is the war over, then?"

"The war had been over a long time. Your Uncle has been with the High King Voldemort in the south." My mother explained.

"My now he has returned because my uncle David died?" David had been the heir, the King's only son. He had died suddenly, and in great pain, of cramps in the stomach, and Elen his widow, who was childless, had gone back to her father. Naturally there had been the usual talk of poison, but nobody took it seriously; David had been well liked, a tough fighter and a careful man, but generous where it suited. The shuttle moved again, slowly. "Listen to me, my little Merlin. When they come to see you, you will do well to keep quiet. Do you understand me?" My mother's eyes tighten as she spoke.

"Yes, Mother." I understood very well. I was well accustomed to keeping out of the King's way. "but will they come to see me? Why me?"

She said a thin bitterness that made her look all at once older. "Why do you think?"

The loom clacked again, fiercely. She was feeding in the gold thread, and I could see that she was making a mistake, but it looked pretty, so I said nothing, watching her and staying close, till at length the curtain at the doorway was pushed aside, and the two men came in. They seemed to fill the room. My grandfather wore blue, periwinkle color with a gold border. Vernon was in black. Later I was to discover that he always wore black; he had jewels on his hands and at his shoulder and beside my grandfather he looked bullish and young, but as sharp and whippy as a fox.

My mother stood up. She was wearing a house-robe of dark brown, the color of peat, and against it her auburn hair shone like corn-silk. But neither of the two men glanced at her. You would have thought there was no one in the room but I, small I was, by the loom.

My grandfather jerked his head and said one word: "Out," and the women hurried in a rustling, silent group the chamber. Alice stood her ground, puffed up with bravery like a partridge, but the fierce blue eyes flicked to her for a second, and she went. A sniff as she passed them was all that she dared. The eyes came back to me.

"Lily's bastard," said the King.

"There he is. Six years old this month, grown like a weed, and no more like any of us than a damned devil's whelp would be. Look at him! Black hair, emerald eyes, and scared of cold iron as a changeling from the hollow hills. You tell me the devil himself got that one, and I'll believe you!" The King finished.

My uncle said only one word, straight to her: "Whose?"

"You think we didn't ask, you fool?" said my grandfather. "She was whipped till the women said she'd miscarry, but never a word from her. Better if she had, perhaps- some nonsense they were talking, old wives' tales of devils coming in the dark to lie with young maids—and from the look of him they could be right."

Vernon, six foot and dark, looked down at me. His eyes were watery blue, and his color was high. The mud had dried yellow on his soft doeskin boots, and a smell of sweat and horse came from him. He had come to look at me before even taking the dirt of travel off. I remember how he stared down at me, while my mother stood silent, and my grandfather glowered under his brows, his breath coming harsh and rapid, as it always did when he had put himself in a passion.

"Come here." Said my uncle.

I took half a dozen steps forward. I did not dare go nearer. I stopped. From three paces away he seemed taller than ever. He towered over me to the ceiling beams.

"What's your name?" Vernon said.

"Harry Emrys." I spoke softly

"Emrys? Child of light, belonging to the gods…? That hardly seems the name for a demon's whelp."

The mildness of his tone encouraged me. "They call me Merlinus," I ventured. "It's a Roman name for a falcon, the corwalch."

My grandfather barker, "Falcon!" and made a sound of contempt, shooting his arm-rings till they jingled.

"A small one," I said defensively, then fell silent under my uncle's thoughtful look.

He stroked his chin, then looked at my mother with his brows up. "Strange choices, all of them, for a Christian household. A Roman demon, Perhaps, Lily?"

She put up her chin. "Perhaps. How do I know? It was dark."

I thought a flash of amusement came and went in his face, but the King swept a hand down in a violent gesture. "You see? That's all you'll get- lies, tales of sorcery, insolence! Get back to your work, girl, and keep your bastard out of my sight! Now that your sister's husband is home, we'll find a man who'll take the pair of you from under my feet and his! Vernon, I hope you see the sense of siring yourself a son now, or two, since this is all I'm left with!"

"Oh, I'm for it," said Vernon easily. Their attention had lifted from me. They were going, and neither had touched me. I unclenched my hands and moved back softly, half a pace; another. "But you've got yourself a new queen meantime, sir, and they tell me she's pregnant?"

"No matter of that, you should be wed, and soon. I'm an old man, and these are troubled times. As for this boy"—I froze again—"forget him. Whoever, sired him, if he hasn't come forward in six years, he'll not do so now. And if it had been Voldemort himself, the High King, he'd have made nothing of him. A sullen brat who skulks alone in corners. Doesn't even play with the other boys—afraid to, likely. Afraid of his own shadow."

The king turned away. Vernon's eyes met my mother's, over my head. Some message passed. Then he looked down at me again, and smiled.

I still remember how the room seemed to light up, though the sun had gone now, and its warmth with it. Soon they would be bringing in the rushlights.

"Well," said Vernon, "it's but a fledging falcon after all. Don't be to hard on him, sir; you've frightened better men than he is, in your time."

"Yourself, you mean? Hah!" The Kings eyes glimmered with humor.

"I assure you sir."

The King, in the doorway, glared briefly at me under his jutting brows, and then with a puff of impatient breath settled his mantle over his arms. "Well, well, let be. God's sweet death, but I'm hungry. It's well past supper-time—but I suppose you'll want to go and soak yourself first, in your damned Roman fashion? I warn you, we've never had the furnaces on since Petunia left…"

He turned with a swirl of the blue cloak and went out, still taking. Behind me I heard my mother's breath go out, and the rustle of her gown as she sat. My uncle put out a hand to me.

"Come, Merlinus, and talk to me while I bathe in your cold Welsh water. We princes must get to know one another."

I stood rooted. I was conscious of my mother's silence, and how still she sat. "Come," said my uncle, gently, and smiled at me again. I ran to him.

I went through the hypocaust that night.

This was my own private way, my secret hiding-place where I could escape from the bigger boys and play my own solitary games. My grandfather had been right when he said I "skulked alone in corners," but this was not from fear, though the sons of his nobles followed his lead—as children do—and made me their butt in their rough war-games whenever they could catch me.

At the beginning, it is true, the tunnels of the disused heating-system were a refuge, a secret place where I could hide and be alone; but I soon found a curiously strong pleasure in exploring the great system of the dark, earth-smelling chambers under the palace floors.

My grandfather's palace had been, in times past, a vast country-house belonging to some Roman notable who had owned and farmed the land for several miles each way along the river valley. The main part of the house still stood, though badly scarred by time and war, and by at least one disastrous fire, which had destroyed one end of the main black and part of the wing. The old slaves' quarters were still intact round the courtyard where the cooks and house servants worked, and the bath-house remained, thought patched and plastered and with the roof rough-thatched over the worst bits. I never remember the furnace working; water was heated over the courtyard fires.

The entrance to my secret labyrinth was the stoke-hole in the boiler-house; this was a trap in the wall under the cracked and rustling boiler, barley the height of a grown man's knee, and hidden by the docks and nettles and a huge curved metal shard fallen from the boiler itself.

Once inside, you could get under the rooms of the bathhouse, but this had been out of use for so long that the space under the floors was too cluttered and foul even for me. I went the other way, under the main black of the palace. Here the old hot-air system had been so well built and maintained that even now the knee-high space under the floors was dry and airy, and plaster still cling to the brick pillars that held had collapsed, or debris had fallen, but the traps which led from one room to another were solidly arc held and safe, and I was free to crawl, unseen and unheard, even as far as the King's own chamber.

If they had ever discovered me I think I might have received a worse punishment than whipping: I must have listened, innocently enough, to dozens of secret councils, and certainly too some very private goings-on, but that side of it never occurred to me. And it was natural enough that nobody should give a thought to the dangers of eavesdropping's; in the old days the flues had been cleaned by boy-slaves, and nobody much beyond the age of ten could ever have got through some of the working; there were on or two places where even I was hard put to it to wriggle though.

I was only once in danger of discovery: one afternoon when Alice supposed I was playing with the boys and they in turn thought I was safe under her skirts, the red-haired Piers, my chief tormentor, gave a younger boy such a shove from the roof-tree where they were playing that the latter fell and broke a leg, and set up such a howling that Alice, running to the scene, discovered me absent and set the palace by the ears. I heard the noise, and emerged breathless and dirty from under the boiler, just as she started a hunt through the bath-house wing. I lied my way out of it, and got off with boxed ears and a scolding, but it was a warning; I never went into the hypocaust again by daylight, only at night before Alice came to bed, or once or twice when I was wakeful and she was already abed and snoring.

Most of the palace would be abed, too, but when there was a feast, or when my grandfather had guests, I would listen to noise of voices and the singing; and sometimes I would creep as far as my mother's chamber. To hear the sound of her voice as she talked with her women. But one night I heard her praying, aloud, as one does sometimes when alone, and in the prayer was my name, "Harry," and then her tears. After that I went another way, past the Queen's rooms, where almost every evening Olwen, the young Queen, sang to her harp among her ladies, until the King's tread came heavily down the corridor, and the music stopped.

But it was for none of these things that I went. What mattered to me—I see it clearly now—was to be alone in the secret dark, where a man is his own master, except for death.

Mostly I went to what I called my "cave." This had been part of some main chimney-shaft, and the top of it had crumbled, so that one could see the sky. It had held magic for me since the day I had looked up midday and had seen, faint but unmistakable, a star. Now when I went in at night I would curl up on my bed of stolen stable-straw and watch the stars wheeling slowly across, and make my own bet with heaven, which was, if the moon should show over the shaft while I was there, the next day would bring me my heart's desire.

The moon was there that night. Full and shining, she stood clear in the center of the shaft, her light pouring down on my upturned face so white and pure that it seemed I drank it in like water. I did not move till she had gone, and the little star that dogs her.

On the way back I passed under a room that had been empty before, but which now held voices.

Vernon's room, of course. He and another man whose name I did not know, but who, from his accent, was one of those who had ridden in that day; I had found that they came from Cornwell. He had one of those thick, rumbling voices of which I caught only a word here and there as I crawled quickly through, worming my way between the pillars, concerned only not to be heard. I was right at the end wall, and feeling along it for the arched gap to the next chamber, when my shoulder struck a broken section of flue pipe, and a loose piece of fireclay fell with a rattle.

The Cornishman's voice stopped abruptly. "What's that?"

Then my uncle's voice, so clear down the broken flue that you would have thought he spoke in my ear.

"Nothing. A rat. It came from under the floor. I tell you, the place is falling to pieces." There was the sound of a chair scraping back, and footsteps going across the room, away from me. His voice receded. I thought I heard the chink and gurgle of a drink being poured. I began slowly, slowly, to edge along the wall towards the trap.

He was coming back. "…And even if she does refuse him, it will hardly matter. She won't stay here-at any rate, no longer than my father can fight the bishop off and keep her by him. I tell you, with her mind set on what she calls a higher court, I've nothing to fear, even if he came himself."

"As long as you believe her."

"Oh, I believe her. I've been asking here and there, and everyone says the same." Vernon laughed. "Who knows, we may be thankful yet to have a voice at the heavenly court of hers before this game's played out. And she's devout enough to save the lot of us, they tell me, if she'll only put her mind to it."

"You may need it yet," said the Cornishman.

"I may." Nodded Vernon.

"And the boy?"

"The boy?" repeated my uncle. He paused, and then the soft footsteps resumed their pacing. I strained to hear. I had to hear. Why it should have mattered I hardly knew. It did not worry me overmuch to be called bastard, or coward, or devil's whelp. But tonight there had been that full moon.

He had turned. His voice carried clearly, careless, indulgent even.

"Ah, yes, the boy. A clever child, at a guess, with more than they give him credit for… and nice enough, if one speaks him fair. I shall keep him close to me. Remember that, Alun; I like the boy.."

He called a servant in then to replenish the wine-jug, and under cover of this, I crept away.

That was the beginning of it. For days I followed him everywhere, and he tolerated, even encouraged me, and it never occurred to me that a man of twenty-one would not always welcome a puppy of six forever trotting at his heels. Alice scolded, when she could get hold of me, but my mother seemed please and relieved and made her let me be.

Note: I know Vernon is being nice but he does not think Harry is a freak yet. His true colors will show later. Please Review


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